Star Dancing
by PirateNinjaCJS
Summary: A short series of three oneshots, all centered around Haymitch and Effie in some sort of dance. Probably doesn't sound that good, but please read and review!


_**Heyyy guys, so I'm fairly new to the Hayffie fandom thing that's going on here . . . always been more of a Johnny Depp girl myself. Anywho, when I realised how many Hayffie shippers were out there, I full on fell in love with this couple, and couldn't resist writing a fic for them. This will be a short trilogy of three one-shots, all centred around Haymitch and Effie dancing in one way or another. We're going strictly with Hayffie fluff here, no smut. Will contain spoilers for Catching Fire and Mockingjay. Pretty please R&R, and check out my other stories! Thanks heaps, enjoy!**_

_**CJS xxx**_

**Chapter 1: Set at the party held in the banquet room of President Snow's mansion near the end of the Victory Tour in **_**Catching Fire.**_

Stars. They're things that he has grown very accustomed to over the years. There are the dirty ones of course, the ones that spin around him in dizzying circles right after he has taken a particularly hard knock to the head, or more often than not, had had a lot more to drink than would be deemed normal, even for him. Then there were the fake, capitol stars that come in so many different forms that he feels a desperate craving for alcohol just thinking about them. The starry eyes filled with unadulterated adoration for him, they're young, hansom, brave new victor who had defeated not just twenty-three other tributes, but forty-seven. The glittering stars that are projected or plastered or whatever so that they appear to be inside the room that he stands in currently, or even worse, inside the arena giving the false sense of hope.

And then there are the real stars. These are the ones that he hasn't seen in a long time. He's been too preoccupied with avioding the Capitol stars and seeing the drunken ones to even consider having a look at the old stars that are the only things in existence that deserve to be labelled with the name. Stupid, useless things of course, but he still harbours fond memories of lying in the meadow with his girl, naming the constellations that they could, trying to pick out new ones.

Bloody stars.

Sighing, Haymitch pulls his gaze away from the twinkling ceiling and waves over an Avox carrying a tray of cocktails. Picking one up, he nods at the mute and moves to slouch against a large stone pillar. He downs half the glass in one go, smirking a little as he imagines what Effie would say about his manners. He doesn't understand the issue with it, really - no one likes him anyway, he's nothing but an amusing side-show next the huge circus of the Games. He's considered telling her that picking the name of a tribute out of a large glass bowl and sentencing two kids to their deaths every year is a horrific display of bad manners that far exceeds his own, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he has stopped himself from doing it every single time.

"They look like they're enjoying themselves."

Haymitch nearly chokes on his drink. _Speak of the bloody devil._ Not bothering to acknowledge her presence, he continues to watch Katniss and Peeta, the topic of her interest, who have moved on to the dance floor since he last looked at them. As he knew she would, Effie continues the conversation without his help, completely unfazed by his obvious lack of enthusiasm.

"I must say, I didn't expect Peeta to propose. But with the way they've been carrying on the past few weeks, I suppose it was bound to happen." She sighs, almost happily. "How nice it is that everything is finally alright."

Haymitch can't stop himself from turning to look at her incredulously. _Everything is finally alright?_ How can she be so oblivious! She has been coming to District 12 twice every year for the past decade, can she not _see_ the things that are going on in the districts? She's probably never seen a child from 12 actually _die_ (apart from on-screen, of course), but she sure as hell has seen the hundreds of food-deprived kids standing in the square each year, dreading for her perfectly manicured fingers to pluck their name out of the Reaping Ball. She's so stupid, so ignorant, so bloody brainwashed by the bloody Capitol.

_Or maybe she's just taught herself not to see._

Bringing himself back to reality by finishing off his drink, he is not in the least surprised about the fact that he is still chewing his ear off, talking about meaningless nothing. Still not contributing to the conversation, but nodding as if he is actually listening to her, he waves to the Avox who is still holding the tray of cocktails. The man hurries over to them.

"You want one?" Haymitch brusquely interrupts her tirade, making her blink and look at him, her mouth formed in a little "o" of surprise. Rolling his eyes and not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice, he tries again. "Do you want a drink?" he asks, taking one and lifting it to his lips as a demonstration.

Finally, Effie falls out of her stupor and smiles at the Avox, shaking her head politely. "No thank you, I'm quite alright."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." Before either of them can blink, he has drained the beverage in his hand, and placed it noisily back on the platter, taking two more of the colourful drinks to replace it. As he sculls one and begins on the other, he meets Effie's eyes and has to fight to keep himself from grinning.

She looks_ furious_. She's so mad that even her wig is shaking, and he can see her cheeks turning red even underneath the blanket of white powder that she plasters over her face every day. As he continues to drink, he doesn't break eye contact with her, know how much more worked up this will make her. He loves making Effie mad. He loves the fire in her eyes, the passion in her expression, the way she looks so_ human_. And so, this being the case, he finishes his drink in one big, rude swig, puts the two empty glasses on a nearby window ledge, and waits for the explosion.

But it doesn't come.

Something that Haymitch has discovered over the past years that he has spent working with Effie Trinket is that he can read her like a book. Her thoughts, her feelings and her emotions are all things that he can predict before they even come. So when he is 100% sure that Effie is going to explode with anger at him for something as simple as manners and she _doesn't_, it leaves him feeling . . . odd. Like he is missing something. Like he has been missing something all this time. Like he doesn't know her well enough.

He doesn't like it.

Cautiously, he turns to look at her, and finds her with her gaze fixated once again on Katniss and Peeta. She appears to be ignoring him, and he takes the rare opportunity to really look at her. From what he can gather, the theme of her outfit for the evening seems to be midnight - sparkly, dark blue eye shadow, shimmering silver wig, a sweeping, elegant black dress that falls all the way to the floor, and does wonders for her figure. Not that she doesn't always look somewhat desirable, but tonight- _did he just think that?!_ Almost growling at himself for letting his thoughts run away with him so easily, he blames it on the stupid Capitol alcohol and purposely shoves her forward with his elbow, making her trip. She glares, but still doesn't retaliate, turning away to look at the "star-crossed lovers" once again. "What's so bloody fascinating that it's enough to stop you yelling at me?" he smirks, not letting himself think about why in Panem he would actually _want_ to talk to the Capitol doll who has been a pain in his side for who knows how many years. She says something in response, but the words are too quiet for him to make out. Gritting his teeth and cursing himself for getting himself into this, he sidles up so they are shoulder to shoulder. "What was that, doll?"

She stiffens a little at the nickname he know she hates, but repeats herself a little louder. "This is their night," she says, nodding towards Peeta and Katniss. "I'm not going to let my frustration at you and your obnoxious ways ruin it for them." There is a slight pause, and she nods as if to convince herself of something. "It would be terribly bad manners."

These words completely break Haymitch. He bursts out laughing, loud, unattractive guffaws that receive disgusted looks and upturned noses, but he couldn't care less. Effie is staring at him as if he has just sprouted a tail and an elephant's trunk, and he knows it won't be long before-

"Haymitch Abernathy, you stop this instant!" she hisses, frantically trying to drive him into a corner where he won't be seen, but to no avail. He dodges around her, slapping her on the backside as he does so

_why the hell did he do that_,

which makes her squeal with shock and anger, and grab him firmly by the arm, forcing him to stand in front of her. He is still smirking. Effie frowns at him, and seems to make a decision. "Dance with me, Haymitch," she says, sounding as if she would rather be anywhere else in the world, _saying_ anything else in the world.

The feeling is mutual.

Or so he tells himself.

"And pray tell me _why_ I would want to dance with an insufferable Capitol doll such as yourself?" he says, swapping his ongoing snickers for a bored voice, for the life of him not able to understand why his heart rate has sped up just at the thought of dancing with her. _Probably scared of being impaled with one of those death traps that she calls shoes._ Yes. That must be it.

Beside him, Effie purses her lips and takes a deep breath. "Because, _Haymitch_, we're at a party. A very grand party, at the President's mansion, no less. What do you expect to do?"

"Not dance with you," he mutters.

Another sigh, and this time she looks sympathetic. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry. I should have known you can't dance."

_Can't da- What?!_ "I didn't say I_ can't_, I said I _wouldn't_," he snaps at her. "There's a difference, obviously too big for your pin sized brain to understand."

There is an awkward silence, and he is beginning to think that she might actually leave him alone when- "So you won't dance with me, then?" says a small voice.

"No chance in hell, doll," he replies emotionlessly, not missing a beat.

More silence. And then, completely without him expecting it, he finds pale, delicate hands lifting up his big, clumsy, rough ones. His right hand is placed on a tiny waist, his left firmly clasped with her right. How they got into the middle of the dance floor, he has no idea, but he is too shocked at the feeling of her tiny body held so close to his

_at last_,

and before he knows it, a new tune has begun, not fast enough to be called lively, not slow enough to be called lazy. _A waltz_, he realises as his feet begin to move in time with hers automatically. As his mind begins to function again, he considers just shaking her away from him and walking over to the bar, but as tempting as that is, he finds that he can't. He rolls his eyes, both at himself, and at her annoying,

_so fragile,_

persistence. She is still frowning.

"Why do you call me doll?" she asks quietly as they dance. He can't say he isn't a little surprised at the question, but he does have an answer.

"Because of the mask of paint that you put on every day." His words are slow,

_just want to see you without it,_

giving away that he isn't completely sober. "There's nothing real about you, _doll_. You're just a pretty thing that the Capitol puts out on display to taunt all us mortals with what we can't have."

_Pretty thing . . . can't have . . . haha, let's see how you take that now, princess._

Anger clouds her features, and she stamps hard on one of his feet with her painfully sharp high heels, making him bite his lip to keep from crying out. "Oh, how _dare_ you, Haymitch Abernathy?" she fumes, all the while carrying on with the dance. "Will you just make up your mind about whether you hate me or not? You really can't help yourself, can you? It's not fair to play" -_oh, you're just asking for this one-_ "with a woman's feelings like that, you-"

"Well, you are a doll, Trinket," he interrupts easily. "I'm just playing with my toys." He grins (almost) triumphantly, knowing that now she'll push him away from her and not speak to him for the rest of the night. _Well, that was easy . . . or . . . wait, she's not being serious . . . oh, shit._ Frustratingly determined as ever, Effie has somehow managed to surprise him for the second time in one night. With an oddly pained look on her face, she looks down at her feet and continues to dance. _No, princess, that's not how it works. This is your cue to get all worked up and stomp off with your stupid Capitol nose in the air. _He doesn't _want_ to dance with her, he's had enough of her

_not enough, never enough,_

for an entire lifetime, she just refuses to ever give up about _anything_, why can't she just leave him alone

_so lonely without her, his star, his saviour,_

they would be so much better apart.

_Don't leave me. Ever._

"Bloody hell, princess, what's it gonna take for you to let me out of this," he sighs as he absentmindedly lifts his arm to allow her to twirl under it. Her eyes snap up to meet his, the sapphire irises so obviously reflecting the tornado of emotions raging inside her.

"Princess?"

He doesn't like how disbelieving her voice is.

Shrugging his shoulders, he steps back, then to the left. _One, two, three, one, two, three . . ._ "Yeah, princess," he confirms in an offhand way. "Doll, princess, same deal."

A sad smile, a small shake of the head. "No, Haymitch. Princesses are beautiful. Princesses are people." And finally, she drops his hands

_no, please stay_

and steps away from him,

_don't leave me here_

eyes shining with pain.

_so sorry for hurting you_

"I should have known this wouldn't work," she murmurs, almost to herself, tearing her gaze away from his to

_shining, sapphire eyes, burning into his soul_

look down at the expensive, marble-tiled floor. "You always do manage to ruin a perfectly good evening, no matter how hard I try to prevent it." Blue eyes meet grey. "Good evening, Haymitch." And then she is gone before he can blink, leaving him standing all alone in the middle of the dance floor, getting in the way of the other couples, ignoring their glares and muttered obscenities. He stares dumbly after her until she is lost in the crowd of people, and it is too late for him to grab her by the arm and pull her back into him.

Blinking rapidly, he shakes himself and slouches over to the bar again. He doesn't need this, he doesn't need her, not now, not ever. _Focus_. He needs to focus on the rebellion.

But first, he needs a drink.

After downing the shot of vodka that is placed in front of him in one burning gulp, he waves for the barman to top up his glass again, glaring up at the fake, twinkling sky. So unrealistic, so messed up, so pretend.

Bloody stars.

_**Pretty please review, next chapter coming!**_

_**CJS xxx**_


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